Chapter Text
House plants his cane into the ground, rolling his eyes as Wilson's eyes dig into his own.
"House! Seriously, you cannot be coming after me for not having good relationships when- last I checked, I'm the only friend you have!" Wilson yelled, standing up from his lean against his desk. "And I'm the one managing to keep this alive! I never see you putting in effort to make sure I'm okay– its all about what you can get done– what you can do, who you can trick! I'm not sure if you've even ever noticed the work I do to make sure you're okay!" Wilson runs his hands through his hair, staring at House for a rebuttal- an answer. Anything. House stares blankly back.
"I didn't ask you to do any of that– you're complaining that I'm not thanking you for something I didn't even ask you to do. Seems a little..self-centered if I'm being honest." House says, looking down to pick at his nails as Wilson storms in a small circle in front of his chair.
"THIS. House, THIS. You want EVERYTHING on your time, on your mind and in your hand. Can't you see that I might just like to do nice things? I tend to enjoy hanging out with a friend. I hope that the same goes for you at the very least!"
House rolls his eyes, limping closer to the desk to lean against it, matching Wilson's demeanor.
"Well I tend…to-" House can't even finish his sentence before Wilson throws his hands up into the air, turning away from him.
"I ask you a SIMPLE question- 'Do you like being around me?' and all you can start is some long-winded explanation? You— House..I swear you're getting on my last nerve!" Wilson shouts, leaning his back against the desk, leaning into his hands.
"Well maybe if you listened I could actually explain." House responds suavely– leaning his cane up against the desk.
"I've listened to you for so long House– anything you say has been heard by me before. We keep having the same conversations and getting no where." Wilson turns around to face him again. Pushing away from his desk. He pulls his coat off of his chair and slips it on, tossing his keys into his pockets. "House, there's a limit of how many times someone can swear they're going to change– to be better. You've never gotten better."
Wilson storms out past him- pulling the door as hard as it's hydraulics would allow–which isn't very hard. House watches him storm down the hall. Watches the only constant in his life walk away from him– surely he would come back.
He always does.
House doesn't have time to ponder though as his pager goes off- their patient is having a seizure after her last dose of meds– No time to think about Wilson when his patient is half dead.
When he finally gets home (Their patient decided to not mention her genetic conditions when admitted- so now it's their problem), he opens the door- expecting to see Wilson asleep on the couch. Maybe still up and making a midnight snack in the kitchen. He sees neither. Watches the place he lives become more gray as he notices the little details missing. No keys on the table, no pillow on the couch, bathroom door open(with no one in it), Lights all off, kitchen untouched since they last cleaned it.
No signs of Wilson- or of him ever being here. No suitcase, no trinkets, no nothing. It's like he was never there.
House swears Wilson took the heat with him as the room drops five degrees. There's no way Wilson was that upset about one little spat– No way he left because of that. Surely he just…..Found a cheaper housing option…was just being polite and letting House focus on his work. He would be in the hospital tomorrow. House could ask him then (House denied the nausea in his gut as he got into his pajamas and into bed. Denied the sickening feeling of loneliness).
The next morning- He wakes up past noon, with no Wilson to push him into waking up earlier, he slept longer the he usually does. He pushes himself out of bed- Wincing as his thigh spasms painfully. He grapples with the bed to get to his cane, sighing as he leans against it instead of his leg.
When he gets into work, Cuddy gives him a look which screams pity. House doesn't even know what for (Wants to think it isn't about Wilson). He walks into the conference room, where Chase, Foreman, and Cameron are sitting, all looking varying levels of bored.
"This is the latest you've been in months, House. Miss your alarm?" Foreman says, not even bothering to look up from the magazine he's reading.
"If by alarm you mean annoying bitch who lives in my home, yes, I do miss my alarm!" House responds– Using bitch instead of bastard and the fact that his team still doesn't know he's gay means that the team will go haywire over some imaginary lady.–watching Foreman's eyebrows raise and Chase and Cameron's eyes both shoot to each others. House walks over to the board, uncapping a pen and staring at the writing already there.
The white board has a couple of symptoms, none of which are terribly decisive. Seizures, puking, confusion, dizziness? Could be thousands of things- obviously none of the treatments or searches for things like vertigo, or epilepsy, or concussions, brain damage, Tumors, cancer– have worked. All the basic ones are out, leaving them with a huge need of more information.
House wonders where Wilson is.
It's lunch by the time the team is able to get any more info- which is when House finally decides to go bother Wilson. The door to the office is closed, but He turns the handle and shoves against it– slamming into it as it doesn't budge. Did Wilson lock the door? He never locks his door. House peaks into the windows on the side of the door and realizes the lights are off- no one's there.
Wilson didn't come into work.
House swears under his breath. Wiping a hand down his face- ignores the twinge of real worry in his gut. He ought to replace it with anger or jealousy that Wilson can get off work (then where was he now?).
Cuddy walks into House's office, her constant look of exasperation and worry about him doesn't phase him. He's facing the glass windows to his and Wilson's connected balconies.
"Where is he. To get off of work he had to go through you. Where is he?" House asks— demands more than asks…Cuddy shakes her head. It's not even been one day without him and House can't take it. This is gonna be a long couple of days…
"Taking a break, you ought to try it out sometime." Cuddy says, crossing her arms as House turns his chair around to face her. He looks the same as always- no new moments of genuine worry for House.
"He's not at home." House says, and Cuddy- it's not that Cuddy didn't know that they lived together, but House had never really…brought it up. And that he actually calls the place he lives home. And that it's pretty obviously also Wilson's home. Cuddy files away this information for later.
"Well, he tends to have frequent change of addresses. Maybe he moved again, it certainly wouldn't be the first time. Nor will it be the last…" Cuddy says. Wilson hadn't changed addresses in six months actually. Cuddy had seen at some point that his address was the same as House's, but figured it was more of a band-aid of 'I don't have a constant address, I'll put it as House's', but maybe it really was his home for those six months.
"Look- House. All he told me was that he needed a break, and that he would be back. He's not dead, or missing, or running from the police. He just needed a break." Cuddy says– and it's the truth; House doesn't need to know that Wilson told her about the spat they had, about how Wilson doesn't know if he can come back to House, how he didn't know where he was gonna end up living if he really did move out. House was stable enough knowing Wilson will come back. He doesn't have to know when.
"..Fine. Now get out of my office before I decide you could replace Wilson in bed" House says– and usually it's.. a blatantly obvious joke, but the recent pile up of information makes that statement seem a lot more like a confession instead of a joke.
When House leaves the hospital that night he goes to the cheap Chinese place that him and Wilson usually get dinner from. It's a struggle to only get his meal– to not order Wilson's out of habit. He's been gone before, it's not like he's always home every single night. He has conferences… House tells himself. He's not supposed to be clingy like this– Wilson's allowed to do his own thing. House might be an annoying nihilistic bastard but dammit he isn't straight up possessive. Not for Wilson (mostly) at least.
He gets home that night and eats his dinner. It's lonely to watch the stupid novellas Wilson has on his TiVo without the man himself. Surely Wilson wouldn't mind? (His TiVo is still active and he hadn't done anything to sign out or force House to not use it…)
House tosses his box of food into the trash, washing his hands from the slightly sticky sweet sauce on his fingers.
The deafening quiet after every action is another stressor– even in the unstimulating home. Every moment that should have the shuffle of Wilson on the couch, or a huff at something on TV, a light touch on his back as Wilson walks up behind him– just to tell House that he's behind him. It's been one day. You can survive without him– God knows you did before he moved in.
House shakes his head, hobbling over to the bathroom to get ready for bed.
His bed feels the same as always– same too cold mattress and too large blankets for just one man. Same yearning for someone else. House refused to think about who. Surely he wanted Cuddy in his bed. Maybe Cameron– Maybe a cute nurse, take the Wilson route out of this.
That night he dreams that Wilson tells him he's never coming back– he wakes up with a jolt and can't quite convince himself it won't happen. Maybe Cuddy was covering his ass.
House takes two vicodin first thing in the morning– another two right as he gets to work and sees that Wilson still isn't back, and probably 6 more over the course of his day– with his patient still getting worse (Add full body rash and incontinence to the symptom board! He's starting to doubt head trauma). He would usually go to Wilson about this mess. Rant about how his patient wasn't working. Wilson would say something stupid and then House would realize what's wrong with his patient.
But with no Wilson– his thoughts swirl into themselves as he sits at his desk. Cuddy said he was coming back, but didn't say when. He could be on leave for weeks and Cuddy didn't tell him.
Surely he didn't actually do anything terrible, right? Nothing new– Wilson had said it himself. They had had that conversation probably hundreds of times before. About how House couldn't hold up a relationship. How he was the breaking point for all the ones he had. Cameron (Who shot her shot and got broken– because he couldn't quite take it), Foreman and Chase (Who both went through honestly absurd hoops to make sure they didn't get fired, and who still got berated. Neither could quite properly back him up. Not on a personal level), Cuddy (Who as much as he ogled over still barely liked him– if at all), and….Wilson (Who finally took too much.. a final fight to scare him away into what was probably another failing marriage. A failing marriage House wouldn't be there to support him out of like he had been before. Wilson ran away and while House was hurt by that— he knew Wilson would break without someone to lean against).
House had scared Wilson off into a corner that would probably get him killed.
House doesn't bother making food that night. He finds a beer or two and takes them to bed, downing them– They were ones he had bought for Wilson, he didn't like them all that much but the fact that they were Wilson's brings the point full circle.
House can't sleep. Not with how his leg is feeling. He feels fucking pent up. He wants to punch something– wants to fucking hit something. Smash a window and cut himself on the shards. Make himself feel something other than his leg and his heart.
He hobbles out of bed, balancing against the wall as he stumbles into the bathroom, head spinning as blood moves around his brain. He doesn't bother turning the lights on as he digs around in his vanity for his razor box. Once he finds it he pulls out a single razor blade. Cold in his warm fingers. The grooves in it leave an indent in his fingers as he grips it.
He turns his left arm palm up, the white skin there pale in comparison to the roughness and dark spots of his hand. The blade against his skin feels like ice against a bruise. The blade digs in slightly as he applies pressure– he bites his lips as he feels pain shoot up his arm and into his shoulder. He drags the blade up his arm. Watching the blood run.
drip
drip
drip
splash!
He looks at the line. Deep and seeping blood into the sink. A deep violent red splattering onto the white ceramic. He cut deep enough to probably deserve stitches. Not that he was going to get them.
He moves the blade up, slicing a line perpendicular to the other. Bites his lip so hard as the cuts intersect that his lip starts to bleed. He feels dizzy.
Blood is drooling out of the cuts, pooling into the sink. There's more blood than he thought there would be. The pain isn't quite bad yet, with the shock his body is in– it's applying the best pain killer it has right now. Making him tired so it can fix it while he sleeps. He can't quite be bothered.
He fumbles with this right hand only to get the first aid kit out from underneath the sink. He wipes the cut down with gauze. It keeps bleeding. Pouring golden blood into his sink. He turns the water on. Watches the blood mix with the water as it splashes new into the bowl.
He wonders how badly it will scar. He should have given himself a Y down his chest. At least make it interesting as a scar.
He lays gauze on it, wrapping medical tape and a bandage around it to just get it to stay on. The blood soaks through it soon enough. He can't be bothered by it as he hobbles back into his room, holding his arm closer to his body than before.
His bed doesn't feel any warmer than it did before. All it has now is a diffused red spot where his arm laid against it overnight.
Cameron watches as House stumbles into the room. Bags under his eyes again and a new bandage poking out from under his left coat arm. He walks up to the table; Chase and Foreman put down what they were doing and look at him– waiting for his instructions. They haven't got any new symptoms, the patient was stable enough overnight for them to all go home– so House was probably going to send them off to do a million and one things to try and whittle down what this lady has.
Cameron can't help but be curious about the bandage…
After getting spinal fluid from their patient and taking it to go check it, her, Chase, and Foreman are all sitting in the lab. Chase has no reason to be here, and Foreman is here because he's got nothing better to be doing.
"Did you guys see that bandage House had on?" Cameron asks, trying to not shake too much as she takes a pipette into the fluid. Chase looks up from his crossword puzzle and shakes his head. Foreman doesn't say anything.
"Left arm, poking out from under his sleeve. He wasn't making any new complaints about pain like he usually would which means this is something he doesn't want us knowing about." She says. Foreman scoffs at her- giving a small shake of his head.
"Just because he wasn't whining doesn't mean he didn't want us to know about it. It's probably just not interesting enough to tell us about." Foreman says, Chase doesn't add anything. He's like a doormat, if Cameron's being honest (a charming one, at least).
Cameron approaches Dr.House at the end of the day. He's twirling his cane in his hand and staring daggers towards the shared patio between his and Wilson's office.
"House?" Cameron says– and is a little startled herself as House flinches, turning to face her with a look of actual surprise. But it's quickly wiped off as he stares at her.
"What, couldn't resist asking me out again? I know, I'm just too charming." House says, putting his cane down against his desk.
"What happened to your arm?" Cameron asks, walking up to his desk and leaning against it. Watching his face. House stills, matching her glare. His left arm twitches and he purses his lips.
"Obviously nothing interesting. If I thought it was cool enough to mention I would have already. Now if you don't mind–" House answers, regaining his cane and pushing it against the ground in an attempt to get up. Cameron reaches across the desk and grabs the length of the cane, meeting House's eyes.
"If it's boring you won't mind showing off, would you? Nevermind the fact that wounds are supposed to have dressing changed every couple of hours depending on the wound." Cameron uses her other hand to reach into her coat pockets and produce a new set of gauze and medical tape, along with some antibacterial ointment. House still tugs on his cane.
"Wow Dr. Cameron I, a doctor, had no clue I was supposed to change my wounds dressing! How amazing, truly." House says, still trying to rip the cane out of her grip. She plants her feet against the ground and bends her knees, tugging hard with one final grasp– taking the cane from his hand. He glares daggers at her.
"Show me, and change the dressing, and I'll let you go." She tosses the cane onto the seat behind her. He looks at it, the door, at her, and then at his leg. Weighing his options of trying to book it with his crippled leg.
"House, you don't usually care– you usually would have made 15 different jokes about me being pushy and caring by now. You haven't. Show me the wound." Cameron pushes. Leaning against the desk again. House looks around his office- rolling his neck once before finally shrugging off his coat, unbuttoning the cuffs on his shirt and rolling up the sleeves.
On his arm is gauze, from his wrist up to his elbow. An unfolded pad of gauze is stretched across his arm, wrapped around and taped to itself in the back. It's all bloody and brown. Cameron grabs his hand, is surprised when he lets it get taken up onto the desk with no fuss. She tears the medical tape, freeing the gauze from his arm. She tugs at it, feeling as it unsticks from the wound. When the gauze is properly removed, she's met with a cross— a T engraved into his arm. A nine inch cut from his elbow to his wrist, and one perpendicular slash that's only three inches in length, intersecting with the larger cut.
The gauze is covered in a layer of crust and dried blood, soaked through. The wound seeps blood now that the artificial scab was removed from it.
"House-" She says, staring at this cut. This was self inflicted– no doubt. House had- in the past 24 hours, sliced his arm so deep it deserved stitches. She was able to tug at the skin of his arm and feel as the skin pulled apart from itself, freeing up droplets of blood to drip down onto the desk. "What happened?" She asks, looking up at House.
House refuses to meet her eyes- he's staring at the wound too, eyes not quite focused on it. He isn't- here right now. Not really. She's never seen him so….despondent. He usually quips and ostracizes anyone around him so badly that they don't speak to him, even when it's moments of his vulnerability.
Cameron just does what she promised to do- taking the tape off of his arm and applying antibacterial ointment. Applying new gauze and taping it securely to his arm. When she lets go, House retracts his arm, pulling his sleeve back down.
"House…."
"Just give me my cane. You got what you wanted. You happy now?" House says, glaring knives into her as she retrieves his cane and hands it back over the desk. She doesn't know how to feel about this. Bad for him, but also a question of why. If being in his group of lackeys has taught her one thing, it's how to assess and think about a situation. Everything has a purpose, and everybody lies. House did this for a reason, and he was going to lie every step of the way.
"Are you just gonna stand there staring at me or are you trying to psychoanalyze me as we stare longingly into each others eyes?" House says, she flushes, pursing her lips and giving him a final sad look before turning on her heel and heading back out into the hall.
Cuddy sighs as Dr. Cameron enters her office. This is going to be about House. Cameron never really comes to bother her directly if it's not.
"Dr. Cuddy what's up with House?" Cameron asks, coming to a stop in the center of her office. There's a million answers and we both know it.
"I'm sorry I'm gonna need you to be much much more specific." Cuddy answers, looking up at Cameron.
"He's been acting weird since yesterday. He- well he probably doesn't want you knowing but he cut himself pretty badly. Bad enough to probably deserve stitches– do you know why?" Cameron says, and Cuddy can't help but feel sorrow for her– she's trying to pick up the pieces of a vase that's been run over by a semi truck. And every time she gets close, something would tug the vase from her grasp, leaving her to watch as it shatters against the ground again. Cuddy feels dread in her stomach as she thinks about her words– it's been… two days? Since Wilson said he needed a break from House, and House was already onto self harm. Was it a ploy to get Wilson to come back?
"You're sure it was self inflicted? He didn't just… slip?" Cuddy pushes, standing up from her desk. Cameron shakes her head.
"It was a long, straight, smooth cut with one shorter one sliced across it near his elbow. He wouldn't answer what happened either. Just let me change the dressing and told me to leave." Cameron responds, rubbing circles into her own arm. Cuddy sighs, weighing her options.
"Thank you, Dr. Cameron. I'll talk to him and see what's wrong. Thanks for the concern for him." Cuddy says, keeping a professional tone– Cameron's done nothing wrong. Cameron walks out of her office, and Cuddy slinks back around to sit at her desk. She dials Wilson's number, waiting for him to pick up.
.
.
"Dr. Wilson speaking." Comes Wilson's voice from the other side of the line.
"Hey, it's Cuddy." Cuddy says, hearing Wilson shuffling around from wherever he was sitting.
"Hey, Cuddy! What's up?" Wilson says, a laugh track can be kinda heard- he's probably watching TV.
"I know you wanted a break from him-" She hears him sigh quietly "But I think he might have been…more reliant on you than you might think" She finishes, tapping a pen against the lacquer surface of her desk.
"…What do you mean?" Wilson asks, a worry seeping into his tone.
"I think he thinks your not going to come back. Dr. Cameron just came into my office and told me House had cut himself badly. On purpose; I know this is a valid break for you- but can you– can you try and have a civil conversation again– he might listen this time…." Cuddy trails off as she sees House himself limping out of the building. Scowl placed firmly on his face and a stumble in his limp she only saw after Stacy left. Wilson takes a deep breath, if the sigh is anything to go by.
"I- It's kinda messed up..but I was curious what he would be like without me there, or without me at home…I figured he would make jokes about it, act like nothing happened…." Wilson says, and she can hear more shuffling, and a loud zipper- probably a suitcase- being zipped up.
"I'm sorry to end your break early, feel free to still take the time off. I'm just worried about House.." (It feels like a foreign thing to say, really) Cuddy sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as he hears a door open and close.
"Is he still at the hospital?" Wilson asks.
"No, I just saw him leave. He's probably going home, if Cameron's description of his mental state is anything to go by." Cuddy answers, worry twirling around her gut.
"Okay, thank you, Cuddy. I'll go and talk to him. Thank you for calling me." Wilson says, and hangs up.
Cuddy leans her head against her desk.
Wilson pulls out his keys, silently inserting the apartment key into the door and turning the lock. He pushes the door open, suitcase trailing behind him. He's worried about what he's gonna find- what if House had gotten worse, kicked the bucket or OD'd on Vicodin in the past 25 minutes?
But House is sitting on the couch, right arm over his face and three beer cans sitting on the table. Empty Vicodin bottle (but how many were there in the first place?) splayed onto the table top. House didn't look…good. He looked terrible. Wilson doesn't know if he's seen House this destroyed since Stacy left after the infarction.
"House?" Wilson says quietly, closing and locking the door behind him and leaving his suitcase at the door. House jolts, moving his arm down to look at Wilson. House's pupils are dilated, but he seems to actually be looking at him. He's seeing Wilson.
"Why'd you leave." House asks. There's no pretensing with him, no time to explain yourself before he jumps to the conclusion all on his own. He levels Wilson with a stare that doesn't- it's not evil, or cunning, or smug. He looks genuinely curious, scared.
"I- House, how many Vicodin have you taken?" Wilson asks, picking up the Vicodin bottle from the table. It was prescribed four days ago. It was the most recent one Wilson had written him a prescription for– They should last him over a week. Not just four days.
"Not enough to kill me, if you're curious. Probably a shame to you though" House bites, and they both know it isn't true. House just wants to shove him hard enough so he breaks– justifying whatever House has going on inside his head about him.
"House, don't say that. Move your legs" Wilson says, pushing at his knees as he tries to sit on the couch.
"Well I figured if you kicked yourself out you wouldn't want to come back. I'm comfy like this" Every jab House takes isn't said with enough smug, with enough punch behind it. Everything he says is suffocated in this air of tension and worry.
"House. I thought you were told I was coming back… It's only been three days. I know for a fact you've lived without me for this long and longer before." Wilson says, finally getting House to move his legs up so he can sit. House's feet press against his legs as he puts them up on the coffee table.
"Well, usually you talk to me, or at least tell me that you're not gonna be home. Little jarring to show up and you've just up and left." House says, and he can't help but feel a little bad about it. House was impossibly hard to ration with, and he honestly thought House was going to continue on without him fine– but he probably should have prefaced his leaving with a conversation. He can't help but feel a little bit salty still– House is getting his way, getting him back, and still doesn't have to change. Doesn't have to be better in anyway…but..he's obviously more dependent on Wilson than he wants to admit. Three days without him and he had resorted to self harm.
"I was curious" Wilson mumbles, placing a hand on House's raised knee. He ought to explain himself, at least a little bit- House doesn't deserve it, but god he's always been able to mold Wilson to his wants, hasn't he? "I wanted to know if you actually liked having me around. If I left home and didn't come into work to see you, you would be left to think about the argument. I honestly thought you were going to continue on like normal, maybe jab at me.
"You make a whole deal out of not needing other people. 'You're attracted to my neediness'," Wilson makes air quotes around that statement, making House huff out what would have been a laugh. "You want everyone to need you without you needing them. I wanted to…see what would happen if I left. Since every time I've left before I always have to come back to work- or come home, or there's a genuine reason I need to come back. But I didn't expect it to-" Wilson stops, reaching out a hand to grab House's left hand. House stills, paling as he watches Wilson's hand.
"I didn't think you actually cared about…me. It's always me doing the caring, you doing the taking. But.." Wilson tugs at the gauze that's wrapped around his arm.
"Sit up.." He says quietly, tugging on House's wrist just a little bit. House hesitates, but does sit up, shuffling so his legs are on the ground and he's sitting next to Wilson. Wilson tugs the gauze off of his arm, assessing the cut himself. He watches Wilson's face. He looks oh so sad, his doe eyes looking up and down his arm. The cut stings in the air, the feeling of his warm skin against the inflamed skin makes him want to pull his arm away, but the look of pure regret and…genuine concern makes him leave it.
"House…" And House is getting tired of hearing that from people. He knows he fucked up by doing this, but Jesus he doesn't need everyone around him pointing it out.
"Yeah, yeah I know." House says quietly. Wilson hates how dull his voice is. He wishes House would pull his arm back and laugh in his face– play it off as a joke and jab at him for being so caring. He wishes this wasn't so…real. House had hurt himself to deal with the emotional pain of Wilson leaving.
"No, I'm- I'm sorry…. I was too curious for my own reasons and you hurt yourself because of it…" Wilson says, moving his hand back down to Houses and giving it a squeeze. House doesn't squeeze back, but he leaves his hand in Wilson's.
"You have every right to leave, y'know. You're not trapped here. My problems aren't yours" House says, and it's so stupidly rational coming from his mouth. It's obvious, Wilson could leave whenever he wants, he could up and dislodge himself from House's life– but he doesn't want to.
"House. I want to be here, I just…I was too curious for my own good about if you wanted to be around me.." Wilson admits. The phrase Curiosity Killed the Cat feels all too fitting now. House meets his eyes, and only because he knows House so well does he catch the slight desperation in his look.
"…I do. I do want you around." House bites out, and Wilson smiles, just a little, at that. Wilson might do all the giving, and House might do all the taking, but my God if House wants him around– he'll do it all over again. He feels slightly pathetic, caving to this nihilistic bastards wishes, but..Who is he to deny House?
Wilson scooches a little bit closer to House, pressing their thighs together. He unlinks their hands (when had House's fingers ended up entwined with his?) and reaches up to brush his hand against House's cheek. House looks at him, blue eyes looking softer than usual.
"House.." The line puppets the first thing he said when he came home, but this time it asks a question. There's a hope seeping into his tone that House picks up on. His gaze flickers to Wilson's lips, and his hand moves to cover the one on his cheek.
Wilson leans in, breath mingling with House's in the air. House's breath smells like beer and alcohol, but God he does not care about that right now.
"Wilson…." House mumbles, squeezing slightly on his hand. Wilson breathes out a sigh, pressing forward. Slotting his lips gently against House's. His lips are chapped and a little rough, but it's the most beautiful thing he's ever felt. He can't be bothered by it.
House moves his other hand to the back of Wilson's neck, pushing against him slightly– and Wilson feels it in his gut, feel the nervousness and butterflies in his stomach.
He breaks the kiss, breathing deeply against House's mouth. House is looking at him with this raw love– it's a weird look to be directed at him, but he could get used to it.
He leans back in, trying to convey 10 years of adoration and love in just a single kiss. And by the feel of House's fingers rubbing at the back of his neck, it's working.
I love you, more than you could ever know.